The grip of an onanistic orangutan

Rapacious rain lashes the huddled hinterland in an egregious aqua attack on the East Midlands, lashing liquid upon the stark and somnambulant scene of a muted morning. The sun’s slow slide into the ascendant is cloaked by cloying clouds but its lazy light increasingly illuminates the fecund flatlands, joining a galloping glow in the gloaming; two broad beams of bright that scamper and surge through the scene like lazy lasers atop a rampaging robot.

The light source alluded to in the previous para goes by the name of Adam, but fear not; this is not the moniker of a marauding machine for the mechanical make-up is entirely benign and the helm behind the handle bears the familiar features of the gawping griffin that shows this beut is fruit from the hall of Vaux.

Luton’s B-seg baby has been with us for a while but time hasn’t tarnished the soft cinctures of its styling nor quashed the quality of its innovative inner sanctum. Into this mix of perky poise and diaphanous dashboard, the Vaux populists have now scored a slam dunk on the motivational mores of 2015 with the effortless installation of a thrumming three banger with an added twist of turbo.

First impressions are of an idle smoother than Sinatra’s snooker table. The engine’s elegant early efforts are matched as you dip a clutch crisper than Kettle Chips and slot a shifter as sweet as a caramel coated kitten. Even through the urban burden, you can feel an urgent surge hardwired into the baby V’s DNA. Question is, can this Luton beauty keep up the rhumba when the dancing gets derestricted.

My dawn-time dive into the punchiest paths of the Peterborough region will provide the tough line of questioning this fast torqueing tike requires. As the street lights shrink in the middle mirror, the pace is poured on and immediately the acquiescent Adam accepts that it’s time for tillermanship. A nuanced but nuggety ride belies the grip of an onanistic orangutan while the petite pedals feel some love from lascivious loafers and the sinewed steering arrives at the party packing precision. It’s time to push the pedalling to the helm stop.

Powering with purpose now, the triple tube motor takes on a vigorous vim accompanied by the sparky and sonorous soundtrack of a semi-911 as the cheeky chassis soaks up serpentine switchbacks like a mechanical flannel. Cannoning with crisp commitment into an especially hairy hairpin I plant a quizzical kiss on the apex and briskly back out of the gas, instantly causing the Adam’s planted posterior to come into play. I simply catch it with a dab of oppo and I’m away.